


Spira

by delia-pavorum (literaryminded)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: And Wrote Some Stuff, Attempt at Canonverse, F/M, I Went on a Trip, Melodramatic Smuff, Needed to Clarify That, Ocean Prompt, Post-IX Possibilities, Sexy Times on the Falcon, They Don't Do It in the Sand, Vacations are Overrated Anyway, it's a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 03:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15654903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/pseuds/delia-pavorum
Summary: What they need is quiet. What they need is peace. Time to heal and to grieve and to be together without the looks and the whispers, the awe and the judgement. Yes, perhaps he has been redeemed (whatever that means), perhaps she saved them all (with some exceptions), perhaps together they had achieved what no one else had ever done – but here, none of it matters. Not the good or the bad. They are simply each other and themselves and there is no one around who needs them to be anything else.Ben and Rey take a long overdue vacation.





	Spira

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, here’s a thing I wrote, inspired by the ocean (I'm, like, super deep, you guys.) ( _Actual thought process: where, when, and how will they have sex?_ )
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta and amazing friend, [raven-maiden](http://raven-maiden.tumblr.com) for reading this over and making sure I didn’t embarrass myself with in-canon errors related to the Star Wars universe, like whether or not two people can do it in the captain’s chair of the Millennium Falcon (verdict: if a Wookiee fits...) She’s also the greatest for innumerable reasons and I absolutely adore her. Thanks as well to the smutmamas for being my forever sounding board (“Mmf”) and the bestest friends in fandom history. 
> 
> Dedicated to [slipgoingunder](http://slipgoingunder.tumblr.com) for always making me feel like a writing hero (even when I’m breaking all the rules). 
> 
> If you feel like you're experiencing deja vu, it's because I separated this fic from my prompt anthology, ["the belonging you seek"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553363/chapters/33626979), thanks to the suggestion of a few lovely people who thought it might be better suited as a standalone. 
> 
> This is angsty-smutty-fluff or, what I like to call, “melodramatic smuff”. I’ll say no more. Enjoy!

* * *

They have earned this, the two of them.

The minute they have the opportunity, he takes her by the hand, drags her onto his father’s ship, and takes off into deep space. She doesn’t ask where they’re going; she doesn’t need to. It has already been planned in its own way.

A conversation, sanguine and contemplative, in quiet moments before brief rests.

A thought shared between them when they’re separated, each in places where they wish they didn’t have to be.

A promise, when strong hands cover an open wound and salty tears fall on a black cloak and shuddering kisses are placed in matted hair.

A litany, both spoken and unspoken, during a long period of uncertainty and anguish.

Yes. They’ve earned this.

He sits in the captain’s seat – it’s not the first time, but it’s been a long time and it takes him a second to feel out the controls, his muscle memory sore and unused. She hovers over him as he gets acclimated and he has to bite back the quirk of a smile as her anxiousness and twitching fingers invade their bond.

He knows she would have preferred to be in the main chair working the controls, pushing the correct buttons in half the time, doing all the things that come second nature to her. But he also knows that she understands how he needs this – the ability to prove he is capable and in control and able to do this, for himself and for them.

So she clenches her hands and lets him, standing behind him rather than sitting in the chair beside him – even when the freighter jerks a bit too heavily into hyperdrive due to the most minute of miscalculations, causing her to curse quietly under her breath – because when it’s over and they’re coursing through the galaxy, a stream of stars in their wake, he pulls her onto his lap and she relaxes in his arms and they both quietly look out the transparisteel viewport into the depths of space together, until their breathing syncs and their hearts beat in time and unity in the galaxy means more than just victory and defeat, good guys and bad guys, First Order and Resistance, Kylo Ren and Ben Solo – it means the two of them, in the cockpit of a YT-1300F Corellian light freighter, whole and content and en route to making scarcely-spoken plans a reality.

In time, they come out of hyperspace and the blurred galaxies are replaced by a large, swirling blue planet that looks primarily comprised of water. As they get closer, small islands begin to the take shape through the clouds, dotted sporadically on the cerulean surface.

He knows exactly where he’s headed – has had it in his coordinates for months. She doesn’t question it, simply continues to relax in his arms and allow him to do what needs to be done.

He achieves a decent landing, even with the comforting heft of her in his lap. An overall smooth flight combined with the warmth of his arms, the feeling of safety, and the comfort of the beating of his heart have all lulled her into a dreamy inertia that he can feel languidly pulsing between them. She radiates such contentment that even the approaching atmosphere hasn’t caused her to move from seat, her body supplicant and steady.

The freighter comes to a stop, sinking into the soft sand below. He had purposely chosen an island that he knew was uninhabited – too small for a resort, nothing extravagant to attract tourists nor any noteworthy sights; no real appeal other than the fact that it was a beautiful, secluded island on a planet of just as beautiful and vastly more interesting islands. Nothing about this particular place stands out in any way and, as such, it goes largely – if not entirely – ignored.

It’s perfect.

What they need is quiet. What they need is peace. Time to heal and to grieve and to be together without the looks and the whispers, the awe and the judgement. Yes, perhaps he has been redeemed (whatever that means), perhaps she saved them all (with some exceptions), perhaps together they had achieved what no one else had ever done – but here, none of it matters. Not the good or the bad. They are simply each other and themselves and there is no one around who needs them to be anything else.

They disembark from the ship slowly, staring at the sea that shines just beyond their reach. At this point, neither are strangers to new places or new sights, but there is something about a calm ocean, approaching sunset, quietly and steadily lapping at a white, sandy shore, that inspires a certain type of reverence.

Silently she takes his hand as their feet leave the steady durasteel of the ramp and sink into the soft ground.

“It’s so lovely,” she says, her voice almost a whisper as she takes in the view.

He agrees; though, admittedly, they aren’t staring at the same sight.

She goes to walk further and he tugs at her hand to keep her steady.

“Take off your shoes,” he tells her, motioning to her sturdy boots, the ones she always wears. He has an absurd thought, likely borne from the depths of his partly-Alderaanian soul, of seeing her in footwear that isn’t practical for once.

She stares at him, aghast. “Barefoot in _sand_? Are you mad?”

He has to look out towards the horizon to bite back a small smile that ends up turning down slightly at the corners.

His scavenger, his desert girl. Bred from the harsh realities of Jakku and knowing only hardship, death, and hunger as being synonymous with sand. Not realizing, not fully, the simple enjoyment and pleasure that can come from bare toes digging into a golden beach, sun-drenched skin salty and warm, dotted with sparkling grains.

“Just trust me?” he says finally, breaking her out of her reverie as she continues to gaze, mesmerized, towards the hazy blue horizon.

“Hmm?” She smiles at him dreamily, still piecing the conversation together, as a comfortable, relaxed energy thrums between them.

He holds her gaze for a moment, before sitting down unceremoniously right into the sand and tugging off his boots while she stares at him, agape. Once his feet are bare, he stands up and haphazardly dusts himself off before rolling up the cuffs of his trousers, exposing bare ankles and shins.

“Let’s go.” He holds his hand out to her. She looks at it warily, then at his bare feet, then at him. He watches her, his lips twitching slightly in the corner.

With a huff, she mimics his previous actions and plops down into the sand as well, prying her own boots and socks off. Then she rolls up her pant legs, dusts herself off, and takes his hand.

Together they walk to where the tide breaks at the shoreline. She lets out an uncharacteristic sound of joy, a cross between a laugh and a squeal, as the water brushes her toes. Her feet sink down into the slippery sand as she wades out further, until the bottoms of her rolled-up trousers are soaked through.

They spend innumerable minutes walking along the shoreline. She would stoop to collect an interesting rock or shell along the way and his trouser pockets become heavy with her treasures as time passes.  

Eventually, the sky deepens and the setting sun darkens the horizon into a melody of hues: pinks and mauves, oranges and sapphires. Wanting to enjoy the view, loath to end their time on the sandy, peaceful shore, he sits down and she immediately settles between his legs, leaning back against his chest as they watch the sun dip lower and lower while the sky above gets darker and darker, a galaxy of stars winking at them with each progressing moment.

She sighs deeply, contentedly.

“This was perfect,” she murmurs.

His response is to place a soft kiss on her neck, tasting the sweet saltiness of her sweat and the ocean air. She hums and tilts to give him better access.

Wrapping his arms around her tighter, he continues to kiss down her neck, biting her shoulder lightly, laving her artery up to her ear with his tongue, nipping at the ear lobe ( _Earrings,_ breathes that near-forgotten prince in his soul, _simple, but elegant. Expensive._ )

Her contented sighs turn into moans as she moves restlessly in his arms, pressing against the insistent hardness at her lower back. It takes another bite at her ear for her to turn around onto her knees and wrap her arms around his neck, pressing her mouth to his, lips already open, tongue seeking.

He tangles his hand in her sandy hair, half-up in a bun that he gives a slight tug, loosening the damp locks. She moans into his mouth and he responds by kissing her harder, lifting her legs over his so her thighs cradle him, her softness nestling onto his hardness. Immediately, she begins to grind on him and he feels her urgency and her pleasure.

It has been a long time since they’ve done this. Too long. But their bodies remember and they remember and the Force remembers, too, as it hums through them and around them, pulsing with satisfaction.

Continuing to kiss her, he starts to lower her down onto the packed sand of the shoreline when she breaks away from his lips with a gasp.

“No!” Sitting up and disentangling herself from him, she stands on shaky legs. “Not this—not in the sand.”

It appears she has hard limits. Fair enough.

He quickly agrees and stands up as well, grasping their shoes and her hand and dragging her behind him back to the ship.

They enter swiftly and he goes to take her through the winding corridors to the captain’s quarters, but instead she veers right and takes him back to the cockpit. He allows her to drag him through the short passageway and, when they get inside, push him gently into the captain’s seat, before climbing on top of him.

She says nothing and neither does he as she slowly unwraps her arm bands. He swallows thickly as she removes her thick leather belt and lets it thunk to the floor. Clenches his fingers into her upper thighs as she unwraps her long cloth, unraveling it around and around her body. Next goes her undershirt, arms crossing and lifting over her head before he can even blink. In short order, her upper body is bare before him, creamy and freckled skin everywhere, ribs that he can count, scars he knows the origins of, some he doesn’t, and breasts that are the perfect size for the palms of his hands, rosy-tipped and pert.

He goes to remove his own shirt and she stays his hands with her own. He can feel the minute tremor in them as she gently holds him down. He looks up at her, but she’s not staring at him. Instead, she looks down at his tunic, just under his heart, a spot they both know all too well. In her mind’s eye, he can see what she is seeing under the layers of material. It looks like blood, too much blood, bone and gristle, muscle and tissue. Small hands, slipping as they try and hold his flesh together, cold with wretched panic as her eyes watch the colour seep from his complexion as quickly as the blood from his body.

He turns his hands and grasps her icy fingers with his, linking them together.

“Hey,” he whispers, ducking his head to catch her sightless gaze.

Her eyes jolt to his and they’re filled with unshed tears. He aches for her, for both of them, for all they’ve been through.

“I’m okay,” he assures her. He squeezes her hands and releases them, before reaching for the hem of his shirt and lifting it over his head. He touches the healed flesh in the spot that haunts them both, a red and raw indentation that tells a story they would rather not hear, stitched together by love and by tears, med droids and Bacta, and a little bit by a power that was just beyond his reach and barely within hers, but enough for it to count right in the moment when it mattered most.

Her body shudders on a sob and he brings his arms around her, hands coasting up her bare back to draw her into his embrace. Her shoulders heave as she cries and he holds her tighter.

This is the first time they’ll be together since he was injured in the battle that almost destroyed them both.

This is the first time she has allowed herself to cry since the moment she thought she would lose him for good.

This is the first time they have had more than a moment to process their grief, not just for their own trials, but for the heavy losses that were suffered around them.

He may also be shedding a tear or two, but the burden of proof lies with her wind-tousled hair, where he has buried his face to inhale her scent and keep her close.

Her tears don’t last long, anyway. Sentiment never got anyone very far on Jakku. She pulls away from him with a loud sniffle, scrubbing her face with her hands before raking her fingers through his hair and tilting his head to look up at her.

“It’s okay,” she whispers as she nods, paraphrasing his earlier assurance. “We’re okay.”

His fingers remain tangled in the ends of her hair and he nods back as he gently tugs her forward until their lips meet once more.

They kiss slowly, worshipfully, tongues stroking, swallowing each other’s quiet moans. She tugs his hair gently and begins to move restlessly on top of him again, grinding down onto him, his cock hard as steel underneath his pants.

Before he can whisper her name — a plea, a request — she moves off of him and swiftly tugs off her pants, baring herself completely before him. Her naked coltish limbs anchoring that slim torso, strong arms, perfect breasts - it never fails to send a tremor through his body.

 _Lucky, lucky, lucky bastard,_ he thinks every time.

She snorts. Leaning forward, she grapples with the fastener on his pants and in short order has stripped him down as well, shells and rocks clattering to the floor as they fall from his pockets. He sees her intent, the way she stays down and runs her hands up his thighs and his vision blanks as his head falls back against the Corellian leather of the seat. She takes him into her mouth and rolls her tongue around the head, tasting and teasing. He feels her own pleasure throbbing through her body and it shoots straight into his cock, causing him to swell even further.

It’s been a long time, too long, and he knows that any amount of restraint that he may have displayed in the past is near-obsolete now, when months have passed without him feeling the warm heat of her mouth or her cunt around his throbbing cock, and his beleaguered libido wails in the anguish of having to hold off for just _one more second_ —

“Stop, stop, stop-stop-stop,” he hisses, grabbing her hair with one hand and her bicep with the other and encouraging her to stand.

“You need to know something,” she whispers, staying on her knees, stroking him in gentle, soothing strokes. She’s looking up at him and there’s a fever in her eyes, over-bright with emotion.

He swallows a whimper and reaches for his dwindling cache of self-control. “What?” he replies, his voice a hoarse rasp.

“This is your seat,” she says to him, those bright eyes welling with tears. “This is your inheritance. You’ve earned this spot. It’s yours. And now—now—” She swallows hard and smiles up at him, even as tears streak down her face, dimples creasing her freckled cheeks. “—you’re here. Finally, you’re here where you belong. I kept it warm for you for awhile, but it’s yours, rightfully yours. That’s why I wanted to be here the first time we—since—” A sob escapes her. “Fucking hell, I’m a mess,” she says, exasperated, letting out a huff of laughter through her tears.

He gently removes her hand from his still-throbbing cock and draws her up towards him. She allows him to bring her into his lap, straddling him with each leg bent over his, the soft, wet heat of her resting on his pulsing hardness.

He brings his hands to her face, thumbs gently stroking the tears off her cheeks. “It’s not mine. It was never mine,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Even when I thought I wanted it. A lifetime ago,” his voice cracks and fresh tears leak from her eyes. “Eons.”

“But—” she dissents on a sob.

He shakes his head to stay her protest. “It’s yours. My—He would want you to… _wanted_ you to have it.”

She looks like she’s going to object again, but her breath cuts out and instead she looks at him, eyes red-rimmed and glowing, the typically-hazel colour now a vivid green from the sheen of her tears. Finally, she whispers: “Ours.”

Already he’s nodding. “Ours. It’s ours. Yours and mine. Together.”

She nods back, keeps nodding as her mouth crashes against his. She wraps her arms around his neck, buries a hand in his hair, tugs hard.

He opens his mouth and her tongue sweeps in. His hands travel down her bare back to grip her ass, digging his fingertips into the soft globes, before lifting her higher up on his body, aligning her with the tip of his cock—and then hesitating.

“I want everything,” he whispers feverishly against her mouth, groaning as she sinks down a little, wetting the tip. “I want to feel you and I want to taste you. I want you on my cock and in my mouth. I want to be everywhere.”

“Time,” she whispers back, kissing him hard. “We have time. We finally have all the time we need. But for now—just put it inside me. I need you inside me _now_.”

His teeth grit and his eyes close briefly as she sinks lower; back up, then down again, wetting him with the evidence of her arousal, making it an easier fit, ensuring that she takes him all. She braces her hands on his shoulders and bites her lips, all concentration as her body accommodates him.

 _I remember_ , it seems to breathe, accepting him fully on a sigh.

Fully seated, they both look at each other for a brief, but loaded moment, and then she begins to move again, rocking back and forth.

He stretches out his long legs, leans back in the chair as far as he can, and holds her in the palm of his hands—his thumbs stroking at her hip bones, his fingertips clamped onto her ass. His hands move along with her movements, biceps flexing as she sways, finding a rhythm that works for her ( _all rhythms work for him_ ).

He can feel a tingle in the base of his spine and he knows he’s close, too close. Supporting her lower back with his one hand, he brings his other forward, splaying his fingers on her abdomen, thumb moving down towards her clit. He accumulates the wetness coming from the joining of their bodies, the slick arousal trickling down his dick and onto his balls, probably staining the chair and who gives a fuck—

He strokes her with his thumb, working her clit, sending her the thoughts that always seem to get caught in his throat when he tries to speak—

_Perfect. My girl. Mine. So fucking sweet, so wet. Takes me so good. Feels so good, the best, the only, my love, my love—_

Her moans get higher pitched, turn into gasping whines and pants as her movements get quicker and more erratic. She brings him closer to her body, wrapping her arms around him, burying her hands in his hair, pulling his head to her breasts. He pulls away from her clit and grasps her ass in one hand and the nape of her neck in the other. He turns his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, giving it a bite on the border of sharp and sweet. She cries out and stills, nails digging into his scalp, and he can feel her inner walls fluttering around him as everything gets wetter and hotter and tighter—

He feels his release roaring through his veins and he unleashes a guttural groan between clenched teeth as stars explode behind his tightly closed eyes. “Maker—fuck—mmf—” Nonsense comes from his lips as he buries his head between her breasts and shakes in the aftermath of his climax.

She’s already come down and is softly stroking his hair, kissing the top of his head, lightly scratching at his back as he shivers.

“I love you,” she whispers into his hair.

He kisses her where his lips lie in the space between her breasts; she tastes salty and sweet and like the woman he loves more than life itself. He looks up at her, chin resting on the spot he kissed. “I love you.” 

She leans down and kisses him softly on the lips and his heart sighs.

Later, when the pain from old wounds resurfaces and familiar aches flare up, it’s a reminder that lust eventually wears off and reality always intrudes, leaving them groaning and trying to disentangle themselves off a chair made for one. They move from the cockpit to the captain’s quarters to take advantage of the (reupholstered) double bed. As she sleeps soundly, he reflects. 

Ben Organa-Solo.

Jedi Killer.

Kylo Ren.

Master of the Knights of Ren.

Supreme Leader of the First Order.

But here, with the last Jedi, the spark of the Resistance, Rey of Jakku snoring lightly in his arms, he is nobody and nothing, except for hers.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hi](http://delia-pavorum.tumblr.com)!


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